The Lupin Problem
by DictionaryWrites
Summary: There's something OFF about Remus, and his three new friends are determined to find out exactly what it is.
1. Chapter 1

**REMUS J. LUPIN**

Outside the window, London begins to give way to a few scattered fields – soon, the train will be out into the proper countryside, and it'll be rolling hills and meadows all the way to Hogwarts.

That's what Mum and Dad had said, anyway.

Remus' shoulders are stiff, and he rolls them slightly in their place, trying to work out the lingering pain in them. He'd slept funny last night, curled up in an odd ball on the bed – a lingering tendency from the full moon the night before last – and he just can't work out the pain. He wishes these compartments were a little bigger, so he could sprawl out on one of the benches, but it's not really an option.

Leaning forward, he pulls off his coat, and he rolls it into a ball, setting it against the wall. Merlin, did he even sleep at _all_ last night? He doesn't remember, really – it seems like the whole time he was just aware of the prickly bite of the moonlight when it worked its way through the curtains, and the street lamp's too loud buzzing outside, the drip of the sink downstairs. It's always the worst, the night after the full moon, when he's stiff from the transformation and oversensitive to the barest stimuli—

The door slides open, and Remus glances up.

"Oh, no, Lily, he's trying to sleep, let's pick another one—"

"Oh, no, it's okay," Remus says, leaning forward slightly and rubbing at his eyes. "Please, sit down. I don't mind." The girl in front of him, a pretty girl with long red hair hanging loose about her shoulders, looks at Remus with strikingly green eyes, and then glances at the boy behind her, who is very short, and looks… Well. Sick. He's very pale, with dark shadows under his eyes to rival Remus', his cheeks very sallow, and his head is curtained by very lank, greasy hair, from which pokes one of the most hooked noses Remus has ever seen. He's dressed in a men's light shirt that's much too big for him, and is tucked into very loose jeans that are tightly belted around his waist, with ridiculous turn ups around their ankles, over long belts…

Next to Lily, who wears a dark blue pinafore over a floral blouse, her tights dark, her shoes shiny and clean, he looks the total opposite.

"Are you sure?" Lily asks. Unlike the boy, whose accent is thick on top of his every word being muttered in an undertone, she speaks with brightness and confidence.

"Sure as sure," Remus says, gesturing to the other bench. Other children. Other children! And not just… It's stupid of him, to get so excited, because there were kids all around him on the platform, and it's not as if he's never met other children before, but this! This is different… These will be his classmates, and he'll be in classes with them, and he'll be able to sit in a classroom and listen to classes and… "I'm, um, I'm Remus. Remus Lupin."

"Wolf of Remi, Remi of wolves?" the ugly boy mutters, and Remus feels his heart jump out of his chest, his throat suddenly thick.

"What?" he asks, a little panicked.

"Oh, he does that, ignore it," Lily says, reaching back and patting the ugly boy's shoulder with some careless affection: the ugly boy arches a sardonic eyebrow at the back of her head, and Remus feels his lip twitch. Curling up in a tight ball on the other bench, he has his legs drawn tightly up to his chest, his feet beneath him, and his back is pressed right against the wall beside the window, as if he's frightened someone might see him through it. "The Latin makes him less travel-sick. Do you mind if we close the blind?"

"You can close it?" Remus asks, glancing up at the window, and apparently taking this question as permission, the ugly boy taps his wand to the window frame: the blind neatly slots down, a grey film darkening the bright light filtering in. Immediately, Remus and the ugly boy breathe twin sighs of relief. "Merlin, that's better."

"S'right bright," the boy says, and Lily tuts, shaking her head and shoving him in the knee, to which he blows air at her and ruffles the back of her head. Unlike Severus, who seems to be content taking up the smallest amount of space possible, ideally in the tightest corner, she is scooted right to the edge of the bench, so that she can talk to Remus better, he can only assume.

What a trip.

"I'm Lily," the girl says, putting out her hand, and Remus reaches out, shaking it. He's a little nervous about the scars on the back of his own (not to mention the little ones marking his face, although the worst of it all is on his chest) but she seems not to notice, giving him a warm and sparkling smile. She's got an incredible energy around her, like you desperately want her to like you, and like it's not actually that hard. "And this is Severus."

"Severus," Remus says. "What does that mean in Latin?" The boy turns his head to face Lupin, and this time, both of his eyebrows raise: despite his ugliness, his face is uniquely expressive.

"Severe," he says dryly, and Remus laughs a little. This seems to catch the boy off-guard, but then he smiles just slightly too, like he isn't used to doing it, and he slides his wand back into his sleeve.

"Is— Is Lupin, um, really Latin for wolf?" Remus asks. "I never, um, I never knew that."

"S'French," Severus says. "Latin is _lupinus_. Remus is just the genitive of Remi, but you're probably named for Remus and Romulus, the founder of Rome. They were raised by wolves, the myths say." Now that he's speaking in a full sentence, it's a little easier to parse, but it's still a little difficult to make out every single word – Severus speaks in a very quiet voice, and the accent…

"I'm— Sorry, where are you from?" Remus asks, and Severus gives him a suspicious glance, as if this is a very suspect question for a boy to ask you.

"We're both from Cokeworth," Lily says. "It's up North, Black Country."

"You don't sound very Northern," Remus says, and she laughs a little, tossing her head back: her hair shifts in rich tresses around her, catching the light. She doesn't really look like a real little girl – she looks like something on the cover of an Enid Blyton book, where everything is bright and rosy all the time, but… Well, maybe it's just that he isn't used to other children. Maybe it's that.

"Well, my parents are from Milton Keynes," Lily says. "And, um, Severus, his mother is Irish, so he has some of her accent as well."

"Do I," Severus says: it isn't a question, but a sort of wry sentence, and it makes Remus smile.

"You guys've been friends a long time, then?" he asks.

"Oh, just three years," Lily says, which seems like a very long time to Remus, given that they've all only been around for about eleven, and given that he's never spent more than six months in one place, before now (Hogwarts! Hogwarts!), but she says it so casually that it must make sense. "You can, um— You know, you can sleep, if you want. He," she tips her head to Severus, who is smiling at nothing in a kind of thoughtless way, like a satisfied cat, his head tipped against the cushioned bench, "will probably be asleep in a few minutes. Trains make him ill, so it's better that way."

"Thanks for that," Severus says. "Glad to know you prefer me unconscious than infirm."

"Oh, shut up, you're not _infirm_ ," she says, and he laughs. His teeth are crooked, and a little bit yellow in places, but like with everybody, he _does_ look better when he laughs, and when he smiles. He glances at Remus, and the laugh slowly fades from his mouth, his lips closing: he does _look_ severe. Did he look that severe as a baby, Remus wonders, or did he just grow into the name, later on? "But he probably will fall asleep, and you can fall asleep too, if you want – I'll just read!"

"Oh, um, I'll be awake at least until the food trolley comes," Remus says lightly, and while a little part of him wishes he could just go to sleep, this is… This is _nice_. The idea of just talking to someone on the long journey is more like something out of a book than out of his real life – Mum and Dad are usually way too exhausted to talk much when they're on trains or buses, and this… This is nice.

"Do you want me to wake you up for that?" Lily asks, and Severus shrugs his shoulders.

"Whatever you want, Lily," he says mildly, like he's used to saying it, even as his eyes close shut. There's something about Severus that doesn't really come across as a _child_ – the way he talks is a little too put-together, sure, but it's… _long-suffering_. He comes across more as a very tired adult than as another boy, and Remus wonders, for a horrible second, if that's how _he_ comes across. He is tall, he knows, and he's sensible, but—

The door slides open, and in the doorway trembles a very stout, fat boy who is even shorter than Severus. Dressed in very neatly tailored robes, his brown hair is coiffed back from his head in a way that might look fashionable on a thinner boy, but on him has the rather unfortunate effect of making his head look strangely large, he looks between the three of them with watery, uncertain eyes. His mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out.

After a long pause, Severus says, "Sit down, then. You're letting the draught in."

"Uh," the boy gibbers, and he steps inside, slamming the door shut: he flinches violently, and so does Severus, twitching like a spider in his seat and closing his eyes tightly shut. "S-s-s-s-s—" He lets out a sharp noise of frustration, heaving in a gasp, and continues, "S— _Sorry_."

Scowling, Severus says nothing, and he closes his eyes tightly shut again, crossing his arms over his chest and huddling down in his too-loose robes.

"Oh, it's alright," Lily says smoothly, and she gives the fat boy a warm smile. "They must have over-oiled the mechanism." The fat boy stares at her, seemingly uncomprehending, but then he gives her a slight smile. "What's your name?"

"P—P—" He stops.

"It's alright," she says again, and not for a second does Remus believe that her patience is fake. She keeps her attention entirely on the fat boy's face, her hands neatly folded in her lap, her expression not freezing at all, and instead remaining open and kind. "I'm Lily Evans, and that's Severus Snape – don't mind him, he's nearly asleep – and this is Remus Lupin. Take your time."

There's a lot more stammering and stuttering, but he finally manages to get out, " _Peter._ " The surname – Pettigrew – takes a lot longer to get out (God, all those Ps and Ts and Gs, it just seems like an especially hard name for a boy with a stutter that severe), but once that's out, he manages, "I'm from Nantglyn, in y Gogledd."

"Y Gogledd? Where's that?"

"North Wales," Severus supplies, without opening his eyes, or moving.

"Where in North Wales?" Lily asks, directing the question to Severus and not to Peter: despite keeping his eyes closed, Severus seems to know implicitly who she's talking to. What must it be like, to have a friendship that close with somebody? To be able to know that they're talking to you without even looking at them, to just be able to have that unspoken connection? Do a lot of kids have that? Is it weird, that Remus has never really had a _good friend_ , let alone a _best_ friend?

They are best friends, right?

"It _means_ "North Wales". I assume it does, anyway, 'cause his accent in't English-Northern." Peter nods his head.

"Wyt— wyt ti'n siarad Cymraeg?" Severus' eyes open, and he turns his black-eyed stare on Peter in one abrupt, cat-like movement, which makes Peter jump and shudder back in his seat.

"What, you don't stutter in Welsh?" he demands, and while Remus thinks his intent is more curious than cruel, Peter looks about ready to cower in fear.

"W— W-Wel, um, tipyn b-b-bach, ond os— ond—" Peter peters off, and Lily glances at him.

"What did he say?"

"I don't know, do I? He's speaking Welsh. D'you have a dictionary?" Peter stares at him blankly. "Jesus wept," Severus mutters, and he looks thoughtful for a moment, squinting. "Uh, foclóir? S'that the same in Welsh as it is _as Gaeilge_? You know, a dictionary – like a book of words from Welsh to English, or—" Peter, dawning comprehension on his face, scrambles like he might die in a second, and he reaches into a pocket, dragging out a thick, hard-backed little book emblazoned with **GEIRIAU CYMRAEG-SAESNEG**. "Geiriau. See, how am I meant to know that? S'nothing like the Irish, or the Latin."

It takes him a few moments of coaching to himself, but then Peter manages to say, "Dictionary?"

"Mm," Severus says, and the train gives a slight lurch as it goes up a hill: Severus winces, and his thin, pallid fingers go up to his mouth. He looks a little green, and he closes his eyes again, curling once more into the tight ball he'd been in before.

"Are you alright?" Remus asks. Severus flicks his fingers irritably, and Remus feels himself frown. Maybe he _is_ sick, or very sensitive as to the movement of the train, but he doesn't need to be so… Remus doesn't know. Rude, he supposes. Or _nasty_ , even. Lily doesn't bat an eyelid, except to turn a concerned glance Severus' way, and look a little uncertain. She, Remus supposes, is used to this. "Is it better if we just ask questions you can nod or shake your head to?"

Gratefully, Peter exhales, and then he nods his head.

"Do you just speak Welsh at home?" Lily asks, and Peter nods his head. "If any word is hard, just poke me, and I'll help you look it up in the dictionary – it must be hard, if you're not sure how to spell things.

"Act— _act—"_ He makes a few noises, stuck on the -ct sound, but then says, " _Actually_ , I'm b-b-better on p-p—" He lets out a sharp noise of frustration, biting down so hard on his plump lower lip it nearly splits, before he finally manages to spit out, " _Paper_ ," a few stutters later.

"Well, your essays will be just great, then," Lily says, and Remus smiles slightly.

"What's Cokeworth like, Lily?" Remus asks, and Lily—

She reads the room very well, he supposes. She talks for quite a long time, describing Cokeworth town, describing the suburb she lives in and the filthy river, describing the factory district, and even describing some of the smaller villages away from Cokeworth itself. To an outsider, maybe it'd look like she was full of herself, but it doesn't come across that way – Peter can't talk much himself, and Remus… Maybe she can tell, somehow, that he doesn't have much to say, that he doesn't know how to describe where he grew up, because he grew up here, there, and everywhere. Occasionally, she'll pause, glancing to Severus as if expecting him to break into the conversation, but he really is asleep now, his head lolled against the cushion of the bench, his breathing soft and even. He doesn't look quite so ugly when he's asleep – his face slackens slightly like it does when he smiles, a little of the harshness bleeding out of his features, but—

He's still ugly.

Sitting here, with Peter, who is fat and shiny with his terrible hair, and with Severus, who is all bones and ugly angles, Remus feels like the scars on his face aren't quite so terrible, that he doesn't look all _that_ unordinary…

It's nice.

The idea of looking ordinary. Being normal, being ordinary, just being… a _wizard_.

Merlin, he could hug Albus Dumbledore.

**ϟ** **~ THE LUPIN PROBLEM ~** **ϟ**

**JAMES POTTER**

James grins as he drags himself up onto the train, waving to his parents one last time before moving further down the train and sliding into an empty carriage. Dropping his bag down beside him, he sprawls on one of the benches, his legs crossing one over the other. Hogwarts, _finally_ , finally, Hogwarts! The Hogwarts Express! The Great Hall, getting Sorted, the Gryffindor dormitory…

James smiles to himself, allowing one leg to dangle down from the bench as he grins to himself, staring up at the carriage ceiling. He can't wait. God, he can't _wait_!

The door slides open, and James glances to the door, pushing his glasses up his nose. In the doorway stands the figure of Sirius Black, his shoulders stiff, his hair thrown back from his face.

"Black," James says. The train begins to chug away from the station, and still Black hovers in the corridor, not saying anything, until finally, he speaks.

"Potter," Black says. "Apologies. Didn't realize it was you." James almost scoffs, but he just manages to hold it back: unlike the Potters, who mostly talk normally, the Blacks have a kind of clipped accent that's meant to show exactly how Pureblood they are, exactly how well-bred, and Black's voice is right down the well of thick blood, from his word choices to the way he delivers them. They've met one or twice, at big functions, but usually the Slytherin families and the Gryffindor families are apart at that kind of thing – they have to invite each other, 'cause it's all part of that circle of politeness, even with the tensions that are coming up recently, but… You know, they don't _socialize_. Not really.

"Yeah, well," James says. Black hovers a second longer, pressing his lips together, like he's waiting to say something, and then he steps over the threshold of the carriage, dragging the door shut behind him. James shifts in his seat, pressing his shoulders up against the wall and letting his hand go to his wand at his hip (he knows a _few_ things he can do with it, anyway, even if you're not supposed to) but Black turns his back on him, pulling open his satchel and dragging out a wooden box, setting it down. The satchel he then fastens again, leaning back and tossing it up onto the shelf. "What are you doing, Black?"

"Uh, well," Black says, and he turns his head, giving James the most dazzling smile he's ever seen. The Blacks, from what James knows, are a bit unhinged – Black's mother, Walburga, is absolutely bonkers, and from the stories James has heard, she'll burn people right off the Black family tree when she disowns them, rip their pages out of the genealogy books, and really go all out with it, but… They're _handsome_ , his mother always puts it. When they stand together for their family portrait in front of the photographer at a party, or when they wait in the hall to be received, they always look perfectly put together – whether it's Black and his younger brother, or the three Black sisters. They all have nice features, white teeth – it's a dark sort of handsome, with heavy lids and prominent bone structures, with dark hair (except for Narcissa), but it's handsome alright. Handsome in the classical sense, like they'd all make great busts in a museum, or portraits on a wall.

"Well?" James repeats, and Black picks up the box, which is made of polished teak, and is broad, maybe fifteen inches across each way, but only a few inches thick. With a sudden flick of his wrist, the box expands outward, and James stares as the table reassembles itself, four legs setting themselves on the floor of the cabin and planting themselves in place, while the plain surface of the board flips over, revealing the familiar black and white checkers of a chess board.

"Thought you might want to play," Black says. "Or, or, aha, if chess isn't to your liking, I do have a—" Black exhales, lowering his voice like he's telling a secret, and he says, "I have got an Exploding Snap deck."

"Oh, have you?" James asks, unable not to be the slightest bit… Well, _bemused_. This is baffling. Black's self-assured confidence is failing him, his perfectly-manicured fingers twitching slightly where they rest picture-perfect at his sides, but he's— He's trying to be _friendly_ , James thinks. Maybe it's a trick. Maybe it's a joke, somehow, a prank, but James isn't sure how – besides, most of the Slytherin families don't really seem to have a sense of humour in that regard. "Well, I think we'd best stick with chess to begin with, right? Can't go _too_ crazy."

"Of course," Black says, relaxing slightly, and James gives him a funny look as he flicks open the drawer on the side of the little table, beginning to pull out the pieces. After a second's pause, watching him to make sure there's nothing hidden in the trap, James joins in, beginning to pull out the pieces.

"D'you want to be black or white?" James asks.

"I don't know. Shall we go for irony, or subversion?"

"Seems like you're subverting enough to me just by being here."

"Oh, yes, well," Black says, with a shrug of his shoulders. He speaks with a sort of rueful certainty, like he's trying to make a joke about it, but isn't really sure how. "Mother would undoubtedly murder me if she knew, but she isn't here, is she?"

"That's not her in the corridor then, in the big black hat with the veil?" Black's head whips around so fast you'd think it was on a rubber band, his whole body flinching, and James lets himself laugh, tipping his head back slightly. After a second, Black glances back to him, his mouth falling open in a mix of indignation and affront, but then it fades away, and he laughs too, relaxing. His laugh is soft and rich and quiet, typical upper class chuckle, but then it's like something snaps, like a switch is flipped, and he tosses his head back and _barks_ out his laughter, clutching at his belly. Shaking his head like a dog, he _grins_ at James.

"You bastard," he says.

"Nah," James says. "I've seen the marriage certificate. I'll be black."

"Alright," Black says, and still he grins as he pushes the black pieces toward James, setting up the white ones on his side. James wonders, for a second, if maybe he's dreaming – Sirius Black sat across from him in his cabin on the Hogwarts Express, his shoulders relaxed and his knees spread apart (almost like he's trying to copy James' posture, really), the two of them setting up a chessboard together, it's… Well, it's not just _unthinkable_ , it's almost too weird to imagine.

"Does your mum not like Exploding Snap, then?" James asks, and Black lets out a derisive snort, shaking his head. It's the most genuinely _undignified_ noise he's ever heard one of these Slytherin-types make, and it makes him grin.

"Merlin's beard, she _abhors_ it. Loathes the sound it makes – I've only a pack because my Uncle Alphard bought me one, insisted a young man couldn't go off to Hogwarts without one. Honestly, Mother, you know, she… She hates noise of any kind, really."

"Makes you wonder why she'd have kids, if she hates noise so much. I mean, that's sort of what we're for, really, my dad says. To eat food and make as much noise as possible." Black peers at James for a second, seeming to take this in, and then he laughs again, laughs like he's relieved.

"Yes," he agrees, moving his first pawn, and James moves his kingside knight. "Yes, Merlin, I— It does make you wonder, doesn't it?"

"You can, uh, drop it with the accent a bit, you know, if you want," James says, and Black hesitates a second.

"I'm afraid I wouldn't know how," he murmurs. They play as they talk, and it feels smooth, and easy – James is glad Black isn't one of those types that needs a lot of time to mull over his moves, even if he seems a little unpolished compared to James, a little less used to playing chess than he is.

"Just, um, soften your Ts a little, and your Ps and Bs. You don't have to put that much emphasis on them – at the moment, you sound like you're trying really hard to be crisp and clear, like you're talking into a microphone for the radio. Right?"

"Right," Black says, experimentally, like he's tasting the T on his tongue, and only just realising it's there. "You know, um… Potter, we haven't told anybody yet, but, um, do you— Ah, _d'you_ know—" James suppresses a laugh – not _at_ Black, exactly, but at how hard he's trying to let the Pureblood bee out of his bonnet – "about Drom yet? About Andromeda?"

"Your cousin, isn't she?" James asks, making a move. "I heard Bellatrix got married to that Rodolphus Lestrange, and Andromeda was meant to be affianced to that Rabastan, wasn't she?" It seems a little odd to James, marrying off two sisters who look that similar to two brothers who're just as alike, but some of the more conservative Purebloods have very odd customs… God knows James couldn't _imagine_ being actually betrothed to somebody, and having to deal with all that palaver, if it was him. "What, they having a winter wedding?"

"No, no, I shouldn't think so," Black says. "What with how Andromeda had already left the station when my aunt and uncle came to meet her and Narcissa, with Rabastan in tow."

"Already left?" James repeats, moving his bishop and capturing one of Black's pawns. "What do you mean?"

"She eloped with a Muggleborn named Ted Tonks." James' mouth drops open, his eyes widening. A _Black_ , going off with a Half-blood, let alone a Muggleborn, is unheard of, but Andromeda had always seemed the most fun of the Slytherins at a lot of the parties, always willing to fish the quaffle out of a tree if they were just throwing it around, always ready with a joke or to rush in and heal someone up if they tripped and fell.

"You're joking," James says. "Merlin, good for _her_." He exhales a little laugh, and then catches himself, glancing up at Black's face, "Er, I mean—"

"No, no," Black says, shaking his head earnestly, almost desperately. "No, it… It _is_ good for her, isn't it? I mean… I don't, I don't know that I know all that much, but they say that Rodolphus and Rabastan are…" Black trails off. James knows – they were held for questioning for inciting violence, the both of them, two or three years back. He remembers, because his father, the Auror who'd taken them in, had thrown the _Prophet_ at the wall when it hadn't mentioned the detainment. "But you know, she and Ted, they, um, they ran off together, and I hear she's studying now to be a mediwitch at St Mungo's. Isn't that incredible?"

"Yeah," James says. "S'that— Not that I want to pry or something, but is that why you're in here?"

"I don't…" Black trails off, moving his rook with a slow, deliberate shift of his knuckles either side of it. "I don't know that it would be entirely sensible, were I to allow myself to be taken up with— Merlin, Potter, they're all so bloody _boring_." Black tips his head back against the bench, and James watches him carefully as he looks out of the window. "I mean— You know, it's… The lot of them, Mother and Father, my aunts and uncles, all of their friends, they laugh at the most dreadful things. All these jokes about horrid things happening to Muggles, or to Mu—" Black looks ashamed for a second, and then says, "To Muggleborns. You know, it's… And Squibs! As if we didn't have dozens of Squibs in our family tree, except Mother, she burns people right off the thing if they don't meet her expectations, and besides all that, besides the violence and the— the nastiness, I suppose, and it's just so brutal, they don't do anything for fun. They're so concerned with… With being proper Purebloods, I mean— Do you know," Black says, leaning forward and taking on a conspiratorial tone, and James, he's fascinated, can't do anything _but_ lean in and eagerly listen to what Black is going to say, "Lucius Malfoy, the scion of the Malfoys, he was forbidden to _smile_ in public until he was eleven, and he went off to Hogwarts. I mean, can you _imagine?_ I heard Abraxas mentioning it to Mother, and she looked so approving!"

"That's mad," James says.

"Well, precisely," Black say, running a hand through his hair, and mussing it up. It looks sort of good like that, though – better than if he had his hair coiffed and curled. "The only game you can play is chess, and Merlin forbid you're as bad at it as I am."

"I wasn't going to say," James says sympathetically, and Black laughs, breathlessly.

"I thought you'd kick me right out on my arse," he mutters. "But I sort of— I kind of made a, um, a chart, of all the people that I'd seen at all the Pureblood families, the people I could reach out to that weren't _so_ dreadful as to make my mother absolutely insane, and you… I thought _you_ —"

"That was brave of you," James says. Black shifts back, looking offended, and James says, "No, no, _really_ , I mean… What would you have done if I _had_ been awful to you, and told you to take a hike? I might have been worse than they are, for all you knew."

"Ha," Black says.

"Alright, maybe not," James says, and Black grins a little. "I think, Mr Black, that we've gotten started on the wrong foot." Putting out his hand, he gives Black the biggest smile he knows how. "Hi. My name's James Potter."

"Sirius Black," he replies, and he grasps for James' hand, the handshake firm.

"Now, Sirius," James says, glancing down at the board, which is a ravaged battleground, only a handful of white pieces remaining in play. "Are you _better_ at Exploding Snap?"

"Oh, I'm absolutely ten times worse, yeah," Sirius says, the "yeah" sounding almost completely unnatural, and James laughs.

"All the more reason to practice then," James says, and they begin to sweep the chess pieces away.

They play Exploding Snap until the food trolley comes, and they both get a good mix of things to eat – Cauldron Cakes, Pumpkin Pasties, a mix of sweets… Sirius does it with a kind of giddy grin on his face, as if he's never been able to eat anything like this for a proper meal, and impulsively, James says, "C'mon, let's go ahead of the trolley lady and find some more First Years."

Sirius hesitates, and James says, "Don't worry. If it gets back to your Mum, I'll say I wanted to, and that you just went along with it to be polite." Sirius hesitation gives way to an excited grin, and they reach for their satchels, leaving the carriage empty as they shimmy past the trolley and move off down the corridor. James glances in a few of the different doors, glancing around for familiar faces – he sees a crop of lads around a boy he knows is called Avery, and whose family make some of the worst poisons on the market, so he zips forward a little more… He ignores the ones with upperclassmen, looking for the carriages that are full of people who don't yet have patches or coloured filigree on their robes—

"What about them?" Sirius asks. James glances through the door way, and he sees…

A motley crew. There's a very fat boy, who is clapping his hands together and laughing at something a lanky boy with scars on his face has said, and curled up in the corner like an ill-tempered cat is one of the ugliest boys James has ever _seen_ , his head against the bench, asleep. The only bare redemption in the group is the pretty girl sat down on the ground, who has beautiful red hair – not like the various Weasleys, but a kind of burnished red, glossy in the dim light.

"You sure?" he asks sceptically, and Sirius glances at him.

"Well, I mean— If they're no fun, we can always leave again," he says, and James shrugs, knocking on the glass, and pulling the cabin door open. The three of them turn to look at them.

"Hey," he says. "I'm James, and this is Sirius – do you mind if we join you? We were on our own, and it was getting a bit quiet." The pretty girl on the floor glances to the fat boy and the boy with the scars, who nod their heads, and Sirius and James sit down on the bench across from the fat boy and the scarred one. James glances at the ugly one as Sirius pulls the door shut, but he's _out of it_ , breathing softly through his hooked nose, curled up in a ball.

"Is the trolley woman coming?" the scarred one asks.

"Yeah, she just came by ours," James says. "She'll be about ten or twenty minutes, I expect."

"Well, I'm Remus, Remus Lupin,, and that's Lily," the scarred one says, putting out his hand, and James shakes it, letting Sirius take it after. His hand has scars too – they're not super pronounced, but he can see lots of little marks, like cuts and sharp bruises that haven't healed right, and he assumes he maybe picks at his skin, or maybe that he does big potions or whatever at home. The pretty girl leans back, dropping the Muggle card deck they'd been playing with, and she lightly grasps the ugly boy's ankle, shaking him a little. "And this is Peter Pettigrew. He's got a bit of a stammer, and he's used to speaking Welsh instead of English, so just be patient if he tries to say anything."

Merlin's _beard_ , what sort of carriage has Sirius brought them into?

James glances at Sirius, who looks a little out of his depth, but James reaches for Pettigrew's hand nonetheless, giving it a firm shake. It is clammy, and tremors slightly in his grip.

"Braf cwrdd â chi," Sirius says as he shakes Pettigrew's hand, and James raises his eyebrows in surprise, but Pettigrew's fat little face brightens up like the star on a Christmas tree, shaking Sirius' hand with a great deal more enthusiasm than he had James'.

"Oh, a ch-chi hefyd!" he says brightly, beaming. His two front teeth are a little over prominent, sticking out compared to the others. "Ond, os— os d-d-dw i'n honest, dw i'n meddwl bod " _t-t-t-ti_ " yn okay."

"Oh," Sirius says, and he laughs, a little sheepishly, but then his smile becomes a grin. "Alright."

"What'd he say?" Lupin asks eagerly.

"Oh, um, in Welsh there's formal pronouns for you, like there is in French or Latin. Sorry, I wasn't thinking about it, when I used _chi_ – I only know a little Welsh and Gaelic for functions with Celtic strips of the family." Pettigrew nods his head, and James glances at the ugly boy, taking him in. His clothes are much too big for him, not fitting him at all, and Merlin, he looks dirty – James can see the brown stain of ingrained dirt on his neck.

"Why's he asleep for?" he asks.

"Oh, he gets sick with the train," Lily says. "I said I'd wake him up when the food trolley came. Are you awake, Severus?"

"No," "Severus" says bluntly, blinking a few times as he comes to himself, uncurling his legs, and he rubs at one of his eyes, which are… Merlin, they're just _black_. The pupil isn't quite the same colour as the bit around it, but it's absolutely black, and he just looks—

Well, _evil_.

He stifles a yawn against his hand.

"You get sick on the train?" James asks. "How old are you, eight?"

"Very bold of you to speak with all those silver spoons in your mouth, and assume you might be understood," Severus says, seemingly automatically as he comes back to being awake, and the girl on the floor smacks him on the knee.

"Stop it," she says, and turns to give Sirius and James a smile. "I'm Lily, Lily Evans."

"Evans," James repeats, glancing to Pettigrew and Lupin. Pettigrew – that name he knows, vaguely, as a family in decent standing; Lupin, he thinks his uncle Roger went to school with a Lyall Lupin, but Evans… Evans is a common name, of course it is, but it's not normally a _wizarding_ name. "Are you a Half-blood?"

Immediately, Severus stiffens, his lip curling and his hands clenching at his sides, but Lily doesn't show even the slightest bit of tension, reaching to shake Sirius' hand. She seems a little amused by it, as if it's odd to shake hands with other children…

"No," she says primly. "My parents are Muggles. My dad is a factory director, and my mother is an interior designer."

"What's that?" Sirius asks.

"Which one?" Lily says.

"Either," Sirius says, and Lily laughs, and it's one of the most wonderful sounds James has ever heard.

"Don't you know?" she asks, tilting her head, and behind her, James sees Severus relax just slightly, exhaling slightly and reaching up to rub over his mouth.

"You two related?" he asks.

"No," Severus says. "Same hometown, that's all."

"Where?" James asks. "Never heard an accent like _yours_ before."

"Cokeworth," Severus answers.

"Where's that?"

"The Penines."

"You a Muggleborn too?"

"No."

"Pureblood?" Severus' expression shifts slightly, like he doesn't like the question, and then he shakes his head. "Your parents half and half, then?"

"My ma's a witch, if that's what you mean. My da's a Muggle."

"Ma and da," James repeats, laughing a little. "What, is Cokeworth in Ireland?" Severus does not laugh, and instead looks a little green around the gills, reaching up and rubbing the side of his dirty neck.

"No," he says shortly. "My mam's Irish. County Offaly."

"Sounds awful," James says immediately, and Severus scowls, like he doesn't like puns or something. "Remus, would you, uh, would you open the blind? It's very dark in here, don't know how you were playing cards."

"Oh," Lily says, glancing to Severus, but Severus just shakes his head, gesturing vaguely with one of his pale hands, on which the fingernails are very dirty.

"S'alright," he mutters. "No sense lurking in the dark for my benefit, I'm awake anyway." He does look a little sickly, and when Lupin lets up the blind, he flinches – not, James thinks initially, at the sunlight, but at the clatter it makes as it rings back into place. Pettigrew flinches too, jumping nearly out of his skin. "'Scuse me," he says lowly, and he stands up from his seat, moving to the door. He freezes for a second, gripping tightly at the side of the door.

"You gonna be sick?" James asks, and Severus closes his eyes tightly, shaking his head, then he steps out into the corridor.

"Oh, I'd better go with him," Lily says. "Sorry, we'll be right back!" she says, and she rushes after him, down the vestibule.

"He's a cheery one, isn't he?" James asks, and Lupin shrugs.

"I think he's just in a bad mood because he's ill," he says diplomatically, hesitating for a second, and then saying, "He's quite… _rude_ , though."

"How do they know each other?" Sirius asks. "I mean… His clothes don't fit him, I don't understand how _she_ could take up with the likes of _him_."

"Exactly," James says, and Lupin shrugs his shoulders slightly once again, rubbing the back of his neck.

"They go to the sa-ame p-p- _park_ ," Pettigrew says. "He—" He stammers over a word James can't make out, and then he looks to Lupin, who leans forward slightly.

"She said it was him who told her she was a witch," Remus says. "A few years back, he caught her doing some magic in the park, and they were the only magical people in town, so they sort of just fell in together. She's very nice, she really is – she's really funny, and she's very kind."

"What's his last name?" James asks.

"Snape," Lupin says. "But Lily said his dad's the Muggle, and his maiden name is Prince."

"Prince," Sirius repeats, and James glances at him, taking in his thoughtful expression. "That's an Irish family – _very_ strict, about being Pureblood, I mean, but they were very poor these days, last I heard. Had their property left, but they'd sold off a lot of the heirlooms, and didn't have as much money as they used to."

"Well, he certainly doesn't look like he's got money to spare, no," James mutters, and Sirius sniggers; Pettigrew chuckles, and Lupin glances out of the window. "He could make a fortune in lanterns, though. There's enough grease on him to keep a good few dozen burning." Lupin sniggers, and Pettigrew giggles, putting his hands over his mouth.

"There's the nose too, of course," Lupin offers, a little weakly, like he isn't used to talking as part of a group. "He could probably dip it in ink and use it as a quill." Sirius cracks up, laughing hard, and then the door opens, and Snape moves to sit down once again, his back up against the wall, he tries to stifle it, but doesn't really manage.

"Were you sick?" James asks.

"No," Snape murmurs.

"Was anybody else?" Sirius asks, and Snape stares at him, his confusion showing on his face: James can't help the way he cracks up, and once he starts laughing, Pettigrew and Lupin do, and Snape sits in baffled silence, staring between each of them until they begin to taper off. When Lily comes back into the room, she sits back on the floor, neatly cross-legged, and she smiles at them.

"So, what are we talking about?" she asks.

"Oh, nothing," Sirius says. "Nothing at all." And with that, Lily deals in a hand of cards for them – James, he just… He can't _understand_ it, why this bright and bubbly girl would hang out with a boy like that…

At one point, he makes a joke James doesn't catch, because he says it so quietly and with his hard to understand accent, and she _laughs_ , laughs like he's the funniest person in the world, and they share a little grin, and James, it just—

It's _ridiculous_ , is what it is. _Ridiculous_.

But they settle into cards, the five of them (Snape doesn't play, because focusing on the cards makes him more ill) and when the trolley woman comes by, Lily… Honestly, it's actually kind of cute, how little she knows.

"Do I like Cauldron Cakes?" she asks, turning back to Severus, and he laughs.

"I dunno, do I?"

"Do _you_ like Cauldron Cakes?"

"No idea," Snape says, and he asks for one Pumpkin Pastie, handing over the two or three knuts it costs – James notes that he doesn't say "please", although he does say "thanks" in a kind of put-upon way. It's almost as if he doesn't think about it, when he tears off a piece and hands it to her, lets he try it before she coughs slightly and shakes her head.

"Um, no, may I—" she makes a face, wrinkling her nose, and the trolley witch laughs.

"Don't worry, dear – pumpkin takes a bit of getting used to. Very good for you, though!"

"It tastes like it," Lily says, and the woman laughs. "May I have two Cauldron Cakes, and may I have two Chocolate Frogs, please?"

"Of course, dearie," the trolley witch says brightly, passing them down to her. Pettigrew looks yearningly at the array of sweets on the trolley, and James thinks he can see his lip quivering. Merlin, he can't help but think. How is he supposed to do spells if he can't even _talk_?

"Excuse me," he says, "our friend here's got a stutter, can he just point? I think getting out the Ps in Pumpkin Pastie will be a bit hard for him."

"Oh, of course, love," the trolley witch says immediately, and Pettigrew shoots James an uncertain smile, standing up and pointing to… Well, he points to a few things, actually, but most of it he ends up packing away into his bag, and then he sits with a packet of Bertie Bott's Beans open on his knees, two Pasties waiting beside him.

"Nothing for me, thanks," Lupin says.

"Oh, no, you should have something, love, it's nearly five more hours 'til dinner!"

"Oh, no, I had a hearty breakfast—"

"Go on," she says, handing out a Cauldron Cake and a Pumpkin Pastie to him. "Have these on me."

"Oh, no, I can pay, I just—"

"Won't hear of it, not now I've said it!" the trolley witch says, and Lupin sheepishly laughs, taking the two packets.

"Thank you," he says quietly, and she gives them a cheerful little wave as she goes off down the corridor, and Sirius slides the door closed.

"Now, that is a woman that _really_ loves her job," he says.

"You w-w-w-would too, if you only w—" He gets stuck on the "w" sound, this time, but they wait for him to get it out, and when he finally says, "Worked six d-d-day— _Fuck_." They crack up. Maybe it's the way the word sounds in Pettigrew's voice, which is high and a little squeaky, on top of the lilt of his Welsh accent; maybe it's the contrast of the harsh language against just a round, stout boy, but they all laugh. Even Lily, who looks more than a little scandalised, is giggling behind her hand, and Pettigrew takes the laughter with a good-natured slump.

"Worked six days a year?" Sirius supplies, and Pettigrew nods his head. "Where'd you learn a word like that, Peter?" With a theatrical movement, Pettigrew holds up a leather bound book: a Welsh to English dictionary, and they all laugh again.

They settle into easy conversation, then, not really talking about anything – Sirius and James talk about Quidditch a little, although it's plain the other boys in the carriage are _not_ sportsmen, and then Lily asks about wizarding music, which makes them all chime in except Snape, who seems as clueless as Lily does.

When it begins to get dark, Snape says, "Oh, we should get changed into our robes."

"Oh, we've still got time, Severus," Lily says, but Snape is already drawing out his robes, which look a little big for him – although not so much as his Muggle clothes – from a bag. "It's at least another hour until the castle, isn't it?" Snape shrugs, moving out of the compartment and into the vestibule.

"He could have waited," Sirius says.

"Oh, I think he's gone to the bathroom," Lily says mildly, throwing down a club – or is it a spade? James isn't used to the Muggle decks, and the wizarding ones have different patterns on them, not clubs, spades, diamonds, and hearts. He _thinks_ this one is a club. "His family're Catholic, they're very prudish. Even if he'd just waited for me to go, he wouldn't have wanted to change in front of you guys."

"T-t-takes all k-k-k-kinds," Peter says dryly, and Remus presses his lips tightly together, James guesses to keep from laughing.

"I may as well go and change, then," she says, grabbing her bag. "Do you guys want to pull the blind? I'll knock before I come back in."

"Alright," James says, and they begin to get changed into their robes. As James had suspected, when Snape comes back, his robe is much too big for him, the skirt dragging on the ground because the hem's been turned up very clumsily, the sleeves too long for him. "Hand-me-down?" James asks, and Snape says nothing, gritting his teeth slightly and sitting down.

"Can't wait to have some colour on these," Sirius says, looking down at the blank collar of his outer robe. "They look bloody plain, don't they?"

"The question is," James says, with no small amount of dramatic flair, " _what_ colour."

"Well I, my friends, believe I shall be sporting the noble colours of our friend, the eagle, in blue and bronze," Lupin says, raising himself to his full height and raising his chin as he puts one arm over his chest, like somebody posing for a portrait. Lily laughs, sitting gracefully down beside him.

"Me too," she says, copying his stance, and they break into laughs together, leaning into one another. "How about you, Peter?" Pettigrew thinks for a moment, and then he shrugs his shoulders, spreading his hands.

"Oh, you're a Hufflepuff if ever I saw one, Peter," Sirius says, and James has to clench his fingernails into his palm in his sleeve to keep from laughing out loud. "You're loyal to the end, I bet." Pettigrew smiles, taking this for a compliment, and he glances to James, the silent question showing in his watery eyes.

"Well, I will be a _Gryffindor_ ," James says. "All Potters are Gryffindors."

"What about you, Sirius?" Lily asks, and James sees Sirius falter, the reminder of his family brought to the forefront.

"Oh, no, Severus first," he says immediately, and Severus glances up from his knees, looking at James for a long moment.

"Slytherin," he says, with certainty.

"I wouldn't mind Slytherin," Lily says, and there's a moment's silence.

"Well," James says. "Sorry, um… You do know—" He trails off, glancing to Sirius, who is looking at his knees.

"Um, Slytherin doesn't allow Muggleborns, Lily," Remus says.

"Yes, it does," Snape breaks in. "Salazar Slytherin's bigotry isn't carried by the hat. Slytherin Muggleborns are rare, but not unheard of. You can be in whatever house you want, Lily."

"And you _don't_ want that one," James breaks in. "Slytherin might _allow_ Muggleborns, but the Slytherins will mostly be disgusting about it – they're nasty about Half-bloods, let alone Muggleborns. Besides, the Slytherins are mostly gits anyway."

"Better, of course, to be a Gryffindor, I s'pose," Snape says. "Why have a head full of knowledge when you can fill it with air and wave a sword about?"

"Well, one house is known for its _nobility_ , and the other's known for dark wizards, so which would _you_ rather?" James demands.

"I'd rather be a dark wizard than _dead_ from stupidity," Snape says,

"I bet you would," James says, leaning in closer, and Snape scowls at him. "You look like you'll fit right in with them."

"And what're you gonna do?" Snape asks. "Declare yourself a knight and go around attacking every Slytherin minding his own business?"

"Course, why not?" James asks. "A Slytherin minding his own business will be a Slytherin hurting somebody soon enough, won't it?"

"You see, Lily?" Snape asks, turning his head. Lily is sitting there with a look of absolute disgust on her face, staring at James, and James feels like he's suddenly out of step, like he's been doused in cold water. "The posh types're all the same, no matter what house they're in. So long as they can bully somebody."

"I'm not a bully," James hisses, and Snape laughs.

"What happened to extolling Gryffindor's virtues, Potter? Bullying's at the chief of the Gryffindor list, in't it?"

"Oh, _shut up_ ," Sirius snaps. "You snivelling little oik – you couldn't shine a bloody Gryffindor's shoes. What, are you just hoping you'll be in Slytherin, and it'll all be fine, because your mum was in Slytherin? _Please_. They'll tear you apart."

"I think we should go," Lily says, getting to her feet. "Come on, Severus, let's go sit with the other oiks, shall we?" Snape gets to his feet, and James feels his stomach flip.

"No, Lily, don't be like that – it's just _him_ , we're not—"

"Oh, shut up, Potter," Lily says, her lip curling in disgust as she looks at him, and she shoulders her bag, stepping into the vestibule. "You can keep the cards, Remus." As Snape tries to get up, Sirius whips out his leg, and James snickers as he falls flat on his face, letting out a snake-like hiss of pain, and then he rushes out into the corridor, slamming the door so hard that it rattles in the place: Pettigrew flinches, and he's shaking just a little.

"Dark wizard if I ever saw one," James says. "You mark my words."

"Consider them marked," Sirius says.

"Doesn't seem right," Remus says. "To act as if it'd be fine, for her to be in Slytherin. I mean, he obviously _knows_ how they treat Muggleborns."

"Ex-ex-ex—" Pettigrew sighs. "Yes," he says, resolutely.

 _"Exactly_ ," Remus says for him, and Pettigrew nods. "She's a nice girl, though."

"Yeah," James murmurs, ruffling his hair absentmindedly. "Well, we shall see, boys. Slimy little bastard belongs in Slytherin."

"Yeah," Sirius agrees.

Outside, James can see Hogsmeade in the distance, out on the hill, and he sighs slightly, crossing his arms over his chest. Well, so much for making friends… Except for Lupin and Pettigrew, of course, who are now waiting in awkward silence.

Merlin.

**ϟ** **~ THE LUPIN PROBLEM ~** **ϟ**

**REMUS J. LUPIN**

When they get off the Hogwarts Express, they're ushered by the most gigantic man that Remus has ever seen – whose name is Hagrid – to move down toward a great lake. In the light of the new moon, which makes Remus' skin feel too tight and itchy, it has a beautiful, pearly-white blue, and he steps into a boat, helping Peter in after him.

Sirius and James hesitate for a second, as if they don't know if to get into the boat with them, but then they opt forward, and Remus takes advantage of his long legs and his balance, helping both of the shorter boys in.

"There's a giant squid in this lake," Sirius says, with no small amount of excitement, and immediately, Peter scuffles to the edge of the boat, leaning right over to look in. The boat rocks, and Remus laughs, dragging him back into the centre by the collar of his robe.

"But—"

"You're going to fall in," Remus says, and Peter looks eagerly at the surface of the water, all but bouncing in his seat. The boat shifts as he does so, and Remus seats himself on the wooden slats, glancing over the boats as they fill up with First Years. He can see Snape and Lily in a boat with two blond boys, and if his face is anything to go by, the boat is a good deal worse than the train is.

His mouth is clapped over his mouth the entire time as they begin to move, and when Remus points this out to Sirius and James, they both start laughing, and Peter does too—

Maybe it's cruel, and unkind, but Remus is so used to being the boy made fun of. Isn't it fair, that someone else get a turn, for once? And besides, he'd never done anything to _deserve_ it, except to be tall: Severus Snape is a nasty boy, impatient and unpleasant, and he's _ugly_ , and besides—

A Slytherin.

Not just a Slytherin, either, but he didn't even warn Lily about what Slytherins are like where Muggleborns are concerned, as if everyone and their _mother_ didn't know… James and Sirius start making gagging noises at Snape as they come toward the castle, and Lily hisses at them to stop across the water, but Snape puts up a hand for her to stop.

Initially, Remus thinks he's just ignoring them, but he, Lily, and the two blond boys suddenly lean to one side of their boat, pushing a little wave through the water, and Remus realises too late that Peter is clinging right to the edge of the boat: when theirs tilts, he goes tumbling into the lake with a wail, and Remus and the other boys scramble to call for Hagrid.

In the end, it is the squid that pulls Peter out of the lake, breathing heavily and soaked to his skin, but absolutely ecstatic. "Mae sgwid yn anferth iawn!" he declares, spitting lakeweed out of his mouth, and then Hagrid comes toward him, and Peter's joyful expression fades from his face, and he scrambles back so fast he falls back into the water.

"Get up," Hagrid says, gesturing with a huge hand for them to follow. "C'mon, you'll catch yer death out here, stupid lad." Pettigrew trembles as he looks up at Hagrid, breathing heavily, and Remus and James reach down for him as one, hauling him to his feet and keeping him between them as they move up toward the castle.

Remus is astonished by the _size_ of it – he knew it was a castle, of course, but it just seems so ridiculously huge, with so many corridors and rooms visible just from the _windows_ , and the Great Hall… is Great. Remus stands stock still, staring at the candles, at the filigrees carved on the walls, at all the people—

He's a student.

Here at Hogwarts, he's a _student_ , and he's about to be Sorted—

And he's a werewolf.

Merlin, he feels like he could jump for joy.

There's an abrupt silence in the room when Sirius goes up to the Hat and gets sorted into Gryffindor, but then the Gryffindors cheer louder to make up for it, and Remus wonders what exactly the silence was about – he's never really been around a lot of wizards, except when going into St Mungo's for medicine, and in going to Diagon Alley for his supplies. Unlike James and Sirius, he doesn't really _know_ about the different families.

And Lily… He's not surprised, really, when she goes to Gryffindor: he looks to Snape's face, but Snape's expression is completely neutral. _He_ isn't surprised either, then, that she went to Gryffindor, and when she gives him a wave, Snape _smiles_ at her, waves right back—

Remus doesn't understand him, and he's mulling this over when the stern witch in green calls out his name,

Loping up toward the stool, he sits down on it, feeling awkward with his long legs, and he feels the Hat drop onto his head. It's strangely light, lighter than he had expected, and the brim comes down over his eyes, smelling vaguely of leather oil and… What is that, lemon sweets?

 _Lupin, Remus, is it? Oh, what an interesting head you have…_

"Thanks," Remus thinks, maybe a little snidely, and he feels the strange sensation of the Hat riffling through his thoughts, like somebody looking for a file in a cabinet.

 _Mmm, a lot of intelligence here, a lot of book smarts… Very shrewd, too, very shrewd, aren't you? Very exacting. But ah, what's this? A werewolf, eh?_ _Curious, curious, and you're here anyway! Brave of you._

"Is it? Dumbledore decided."

 _Ah, but you wanted to, didn't you? Yes, yes, courageous, and very noble too, I'd say, with the right influence— Yes, yes, I think that's right._

"GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat calls out, and Remus feels himself smile as he hands the Hat back to the witch beside them, and he moves toward the table, sitting across from Sirius.

"Good man," Sirius hisses.

"What was that silence for?" Remus asks in a whisper.

"Oh, that," Sirius says, and he waves a casual hand. "I'm just the first Gryffindor in the Black family for about four hundred years," he whispers, shrugging his shoulders. "Just caught everyone a bit off guard, that's all." Remus feels his mouth drop open, but then they call Peter's name, and he turns to watch.

The stern witch is good enough to do a Drying Charm on him before he sits down on the stool, but Merlin, he's shaking like a leaf – it isn't the cold, Remus thinks, but the fact that everybody is looking at him, and Remus actually feels a good deal of sympathy for the boy. He seems sensitive to odd things, more so than he'd expect…

"GRYFFINDOR!" yells the Hat, and Sirius and Remus exchange a look, then burst into cheers with their rest of their house, gesturing eagerly for Peter to come sit with them. Lily had chosen to sit right down at the other end, in amongst some Second Years instead of with them, but that isn't surprising, Remus supposes.

And James—

Well, of course James is a Gryffindor. He'd told them so, hadn't he?

When Snape rushes up to the stool, though, he slips hard in Peter's lakewater, and the four of them can't help but laugh – serves him right, doesn't it, for throwing him in in the first place? They laugh at the way he sits on the stool, hunched up in humiliation, and Merlin, he's on the stool for a long time, seemingly having an outright argument with the hat before it finally declares him a SLYTHERIN!

When the Gryffindor table breaks out in jeers and boos, he joins in, and he watches the flushed pink on Snape's sallow cheeks…

Of course he's in Slytherin.

Again, Remus feels just the barest twinge of guilt, but it's not the _same_ as anyone else. Snape is a nasty sod – he got them to push Peter in the _lake,_ for Merlin's sake. It's really not the same.

And when the banquet appears on the table, well, Remus forgets about Snape entirely, and eats himself into a stupor.

"I call for a toast," Sirius says, pouring pumpkin juice into each of their goblets, and Remus arches his eyebrows at the way he lifts his cup, his pinky finger out. Gently, James reaches out, and pushes the pinky down. "Thank you," Sirius says graciously, as if James had fixed his hair, and James laughs. "To the four of us. We're going to be the best class of Gryffindor lads this school has ever _seen_."

"To us," Remus echoes.

"To us," James says.

"T-to that squid," Peter declares, almost perfectly, and they break into laughter again before they drink.

When Remus slides into bed that night, he's full, and he's tired, and he's almost forgotten about the vague ache in his arms and his legs, in his bones… He watches as the others get ready for bed. Peter had already been dressed in his robes when he'd come to the platform, and he sets out a pair of pyjamas for bed, emblazoned with a pattern of sleeping Nifflers…

It's only when he pulls his under robe over his head that Sirius says, "Merlin's beard, Peter." Peter turns to glance at him, confused, and Remus lets his hand go to his mouth. He'd changed into his pyjamas with his curtains closed, just to avoid the questions about his scars, but Peter obviously hadn't thought to do that – he wears a pair of loose long underwear, like a lot of the traditional wizards wear, and an chemise under his under robe, but through the thin fabric, the mottled pink skin of raised scars is obvious in the evening candlelight.

He has thin, curving marks on a lot of his back, showing darker than the rest of the pale skin…

"Is that—" James asks, and then stops. "Is that from a whip?"

Abruptly very pink in the face, Peter clambers onto the bed and drags the curtains shut, and the three of them are frozen for a few moments. Remus glances to James, who looks horrified, and to Sirius, who has a kind of grim expression of understanding on his face.

"Don't mention it to him," Sirius mutters. "The marks're healed, let him have his privacy."

"But—"

"He'll tell us if he wants to," Sirius says, cutting through Remus' response, and Remus lies down on his side, looking at Peter's curtained-off bed. He kind of expects Peter to open them, again, but he keeps them closed, and Remus watches as James and Sirius both sit down on Sirius' bed.

"What's it like?" Remus asks as Sirius brushes his hair. "Having your hair that long?"

"I like it," Sirius says, shrugging his shoulders. "A lot of the more traditional families go in for it, I know, but—"

"When the Muggles do it, it's a sign of rebellion," Remus says, sitting up one elbow. "A lot of the rockstars have long hair like that, to their shoulders, and a big moustache—" Remus reaches up, stroking over his bare lip, and Sirius grins.

"Really?" he asks. "I like that. _Rockstar_."

"Now you're giving him ideas," James says faux-disapprovingly, and he casts a concerned glance toward Peter's bed, but then shakes his head slightly, climbing off of Sirius' bed and sliding into his own.

It's weird, when the lights dim, going to sleep in a room where he can hear other three distinct sets of lungs. Peter snores, but not too loudly; James' breathing is smooth and even, and Sirius… Sirius occasionally snuffles and kicks in his sleep, tangling the sheet around him, but from what Remus can tell, he's a _very_ active sleeper. Every time he sits up and glances blearily at Sirius, he's in a completely different position on the bed, and at one point, Remus wakes up before dawn at a loud _thunk_ , and sees a confused and sleepy Sirius climb back off the floor and into his bed.

Remus falls asleep again with a slight smile on his face, and wakes with the rise of the sun.


	2. Chapter 2

**SIRIUS BLACK**

Sirius rubs slightly at his head as he peers down at his breakfast plate. The food is certainly more varied than anything he'd ever received at home, where his mother had a very specific list of French or British cuisine that was permitted to be served at the table. Here, at Hogwarts, there's all sorts of stuff on the table – he can see the French and British dishes he knows, but last night there had been Mediterranean portions he's only ever _glimpsed_ at parties and the like, and moreover, there had been Jamaican and Indian and Pakistani foods, and even some of the modern British dishes that had been adopted from Muggle cuisine. He'd been _delighted_ , taken away with the variety of things on offer, although he hadn't tried everything…

Breakfast, whilst not quite having the same array of international cuisine, is still much more varied: there are so many fruits and vegetables, so many sorts of eggs, and kippers, and three or four types of toast, and black pudding, white pudding, sausages, rashers, yoghurts—

"Does that hurt?" asks Remus from across the table, and Sirius glances up at him. Remus had been awake at six o'clock precisely, and when Sirius and the others had woken up an hour or so later, Remus had already been downstairs in the Common Room with a book in his lap, his legs curled up beneath him. Peter had actually been the hardest to get out of bed – James and Sirius hadn't struggled in rising at around half-seven, but Peter had to be dragged out of bed a minute or so before eight.

"My head? Yes, it's a little sore." He had slept easily, though. He remembers tossing and turning some, but he's always been an active sleeper, and his sleep was mercifully dreamless, although now he's awake, some anxiety is making itself known. He feels a little sick with it, all told, his stomach a mess of butterflies, but she can't kick him out just for being _Sorted_ into Gryffindor, can she? And if she does, well, Uncle Alphard always said he'd take Sirius in, if Mother kicked him out – he remembers tearfully waking from a nightmare when he was only seven or eight, and how Alphard had soothed him with the promise.

Sirius can only hope he meant it.

"You fell out of bed last night," Remus says, and Sirius narrows his eyes slightly, trying to remember this, but no recollection makes itself known. "Landed on your head, I think."

"New bed," Sirius admits. "It's not as comfortable as mine." And it isn't, that much is true – the mattress is harder, and he doesn't like the single thick quilt rather than the layers of blankets he has at home, where it's easier to regulate his temperature, and there hadn't been enough pillows…

"Some people miss their parents when they go to school," James says musingly. "Some people miss the family kneazle. Not Sirius Black, of course – he misses his pillows and his blankets." Sirius glances at him, trying to judge if this is an insult or merely jest, and judging by the smile on James' face, it is the latter: thus, he punches the other boy playfully in the arm (did he do that too hard?) and laughs.

"I'll have to have them posted," Sirius says, grinning. "Assuming, of course, that my mother doesn't burn my every possession."

"D'you think she knows yet?" James asks, and Sirius shrugs his shoulders slightly. James' expression is quietly understanding, though, unlike Remus, who just seems _baffled_.

"I have no doubt news will reach her soon. I certainly won't be the messenger," Sirius mutters, taking a sip of his pumpkin juice.

"Will your mother and father both be upset?" Remus asks, his tone delicate. "About your Sorting, I mean?"

"I expect so," Sirius murmurs. "But Mother more than Father. Father is… not more forgiving, but more realistic, I suppose, of the extent to which one might allow politics to run one's life. Nonetheless, if she calls to strike me off, I doubt he'll argue with her that much."

"Timetables!" barks a red-headed boy with freckles on his face. He's thin and of average height, but he has a military bearing about him, setting out each of the timetables before the First Years. Shining on his chest is a prefects' badge. As he comes toward the four of them, he squints between them and the list in his hand.

"Alfred, isn't it?" James asks.

"That's right," Alfred says. "Alfred Weasley. Potter, James; Black, Sirius; Pettigrew, Peter; and _Lupin_ , Remus J." With each name, his arm shoots out to proffer one of the yellow cards, and Sirius takes his with no small amount of care.

"That's us," Sirius says a little weakly, glancing over the timetable. Their first class is Transfiguration, from nine until ten.

"You're the youngest, aren't you?" James asks politely, a little smile on his face. He hasn't looked at his timetable in his hand yet, but is instead concentrating all his focus on Alfred. "Of your brothers, I mean?"

"Mmm, yes," Alfred says absently, ticking names off his list. He wears Hufflepuff piping on his sleeves and collar, and it clashes something horrible with his hair. "My brothers, Albert and Arthur, are both finished at Hogwarts, and this is my sixth year… What house is Foppish, Edna?"

"Slytherin," Remus supplies helpfully. "She's that mousy girl on the end there, that looks like she's been crying."

"I think she has been crying," James says, following Remus' gaze.

Alfred makes a rather amusing expression. His military bearing fizzles away, evaporating into thin air as his sharp shoulders droop down slightly, and his mouth falls open, his brown eyes cartoonishly wide. Foppish, Edna does indeed look like she's been crying, her eyes red-rimmed and her gaze focused on her untouched plate.

"I'll g-g-give it t-to her," Peter says, holding up his hand. Until now, Sirius hadn't been aware that Peter had been aware of the conversation going on around him – he had been focused entirely on his piled-high plate, but now he is holding out one hand to Alfred Weasley. Alfred glances down at him.

"What if she cries?"

"S'j-j-j-just a t-t-t—" Peter gets stuck, sets his jaw, then stops trying. He shrugs his shoulders. Alfred hands him the timetable, and Peter swings his legs over the bench, turning around and walking across the room.

Sirius watches, spellbound, as Peter walks right up to the Slytherin table, holding the timetable out to Foppish. Foppish peers down at it, then she looks up at Pettigrew. He sees her lips move, sees Peter shift slightly on his feet, and then she bursts into tears. Looking very small all of a sudden, Peter glances back to them for help, but when they all look back equally powerlessly, Peter turns back. Sirius can see his arms moving as he talks, until a very pale, brown-haired boy comes up behind him.

Sirius sees Peter look up at the boy, sees him stutter something out, but the boy simply pats his shoulder and ushers him back toward the Gryffindor table, then kneels down to speak with Foppish.

When he turns his head, Sirius gets a good glimpse of him – Lindon Sartorius. The Sartorius line is a pretty good family, from what Sirius knows, but Lindon is an only child… Sirius is fairly certain he must be infertile or something from a blow to the crotch, because he's heard a few older boys make snide comments about how he'll probably be the end of the Sartorius line at parties and functions.

"What'd Sartorius say?" James asks.

"S-s-s-said he'd t-t-t—"

"He'd take care of it?" Remus supplies.

"Yeah."

"Finish your breakfast, Pete," James murmurs, smiling slightly as Peter slides back down to the table, straddling the bench once more. "You'll need your energy for Transfiguration."

Their timetable isn't too heavy for the day. Transfiguration with the Ravenclaws; Herbology with the Hufflepuffs; History of Magic with the Ravenclaws again. It's exciting, though, it is – Sirius isn't sure what he's most excited about, but he thinks Defence looks good, and maybe Transfiguration…

There are sounds of excitement and delight mingled with coos and howls as the post owls fly into the room, and Sirius immediately picks his mother's elf owl flying toward him, the animal's white wings spreading out as he glides in.

Suddenly, Sirius feels like he can't breathe.

The envelope is bright red, as scarlet as anything, and sealed with the Black crest in black wax. Sirius' lungs won't work, his next inhalation frozen on his tongue, as Indominus comes right down to him, sticking out his leg.

Sirius shakes his head, and Indominus releases a sharp, angry squawk: James reaches out instead, untying the fastening.

The Howler is shaking in James' hand, and Sirius takes it from him, turning back toward the fire behind him. The fires are always lit in the Great Hall, even if they're not there to especially warm the room, and he can see the flame crackling in the open hearth.

"Sirius," Remus says, "What—"

Sirius throws the Howler into the fire, and the first tremor of Mother's scream dies on the air before it can go any further, the red parchment darkening to dust. All four of them sit in silence, staring at the remnants of wax seal as it melts into a piece of wood beneath it. The anxiety doesn't go away. If anything, it expands like a bubble in his chest, seeming to weigh down his organs, and Sirius feels like he might actually be sick.

"Well," James says. "That was a solution."

"I don't know if you should have done that," Remus says, sounding concerned, and Sirius turns around to look at his uncertain expression, his tightly furrowed brows. Beside him, Peter's jaw is set, and he is looking at Sirius with his mouth twisted up, worry showing on his own face.

"I don't either," Sirius murmurs. "But, you know. It's done now. Let's go to class." And they shouldn't care anyway. These boys have only known him the worse part of a _day_ , they have no right to make commentary on what he does with his own post, or what he burns, or _anything_.

And class will be—

That'll be something. That'll distract him, at least.

 **ϟ** **~ THE LUPIN PROBLEM ~** **ϟ**

 **PETER PETTIGREW**

The Transfiguration classroom is very big, and Peter is glad to sit behind James and Sirius in the back corner, with Remus on his outside. There are so many people at Hogwarts, so many children and teachers alike, and he's never seen so many people at once outside of Quidditch games or Diagon Alley – certainly never seen so many people _inside_. It's easier to move through the busy bustle of the corridors following James and Sirius – they're noble boys, proper boys of standing, and they move with such confidence that people get out of their way a bit, even though they're only First Years.

Remus, Peter isn't quite so certain of.

He's a very nice boy, even if he's a little more quiet than James and Sirius, and he's very patient with Peter – more patient than Sirius and James are, certainly – but Peter isn't certain what sort of background he comes from, what his parents are like. His clothes are a little bit worn, his coat just a bit too big on his shoulders, but his shoes are well-made, and everything's kept in a state of very good repair; his trunk is new and embossed with his name, and although all of his textbooks are second hand, all of his Potions things look new.

"I will preface this lesson," says Professor McGonagall, standing at the fore of the classroom with her hands neatly held before her belly, "with telling you that you will not be practising spells for at least a few weeks, and that your first month at Hogwarts is likely to consist more of magical theory and wand safety than anything else. I have no doubt some of you will find it boring – I have no doubt some of are _itching_ to approach real spell work. Nonetheless, in my classroom, you will _restrain_ yourselves. A good witch or wizard knows as well when _not_ to wave their wand as when to."

Sirius' hand goes up, and Peter watches him, curiously, sitting straight-backed in his chair where he sits, his chin raised.

"Mr Black?"

"What if we already know spells?"

"Mr Black," McGonagall says quietly, her thin lips shifting into a very narrow line, "as I am _sure_ you are aware, a young wizard is not permitted ownership of a wand until he is eleven, and then not to pursue its use outside of supervision by a professional tutor, or within the bounds of a schooling environment, until he is of age. Therefore, you _do not_ know any spells, do you?"

McGonagall holds Sirius' gaze, entirely focused on him, and after a few moments, Sirius says – and Peter can _hear_ the smile in his voice – "Yes, Professor McGonagall. Of course, you're quite right."

McGonagall leans back, and Peter grins to himself as he watches James and Sirius share a short laugh – across the room, he can see Lily Evans furrow her brow, looking confused, before she turns back to McGonagall.

"With that said, Transfiguration is one of the most challenging schools of magic taught within the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The vast majority of you will likely find it to be one of the hardest subjects on your syllabus, and I am afraid that difficulty will likely continue up to O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. level. Can anybody tell me why Transfiguration is so difficult? Yes, Ms Costello?"

"Because you're trying to change the actual physical make-up of something," says Tiana Costello, a Ravenclaw girl with a very tight braid running down her back. "With most charms or jinxes, you're creating an effect or changing it slightly – with each transfiguration, you're either changing the make-up of an object or objects, or conjuring – or Vanishing – something from or into nothing."

"Very good, Ms Costello, a point to Ravenclaw. Let us discuss the schools of Transfiguration," McGonagall says, gesturing with her wand and making a piece of chalk jump to the blackboard behind her, separating it into four even segments. "Who can name for me a school of Transfiguration? Ms McIntyre?"

"Vanishment," McIntyre answers, and the chalk neatly writes it in the centre of one of the four segments.

"Ms Evans?"

"Conjuration," Lily says.

"Mr— Mr Pettigrew, why don't you name one for us?"

Peter's mouth drops open as everyone turns to look at him, and he swallows hard, feeling suddenly very hot. "T— T—" He clenches his hands into tight fists, looking at Remus, who gives him an encouraging smile. "T-T-Tr—"

"Why don't you write it down?" James suggests, and Peter nods, scribbling quickly on a piece of parchment and handing it over. As James' face falls, Peter feels the base drop of his stomach, and he panics at the idea that he's somehow given the wrong answer, what with everyone _staring_ at him. "He says… Oh, Peter. He says Transmogrification, Professor?"

"Transmogrification," McGonagall repeats, but gives a nod of her head, and to the first segment goes the chalk. "Most commonly, we call it Transfiguration, Mr Pettigrew, but Transmogrification is a more accurate label, and one that you might use at N.E.W.T. level – a point to Gryffindor."

"Huh," James says, and gives Peter a thumbs up and an encouraging look: relief rushes through him, and he grins so widely it makes his cheeks hurt.

"And our final category… Ms Jones?"

" _Un_ transfiguration," Jones says. "But I don't get that – isn't Untransfiguring something just transfiguring it again?"

"Strangely enough, no," McGonagall says. "An object remembers its proper shape, you see, even when transfigured – to untransfigure it is to guide it back to that which it _is_ , not what it has been moulded into. Yes, Ms Evans?"

"Is that why most transfigurations are impermanent?"

"Precisely," McGonagall says. "Can anyone perhaps name any particular spells or sorts of magic that might go into any of these categories? Ms McIntyre, again?"

"Switching spells are Transfiguration."

McGonagall's eyebrows raise in surprise, and she smiles. "Very _good_ , Ms McIntyre, they are indeed. Mr Chudleigh?"

"Evanesco is Vanishment," Chudleigh says slowly. "It's for liquids, um, but only liquids with a certain like… level of magic inactivity? Or something?"

"Quite right," McGonagall says, and she seems more pleased by the moment, gesturing for the chalk to write it down. "Evanesco is perfectly fine on most liquids and even potions, but some more reactive substances cannot be Vanished, as the magical ingredients within the power react too powerfully."

More and more individual spells and types of transfiguration go up on the board – most of them, Peter has already heard of, but one or two, he hasn't, like spells for transfiguring something into a working needlepoint, or to tell the time.

"Mr Lupin?"

"Trans-species Transformation," Remus says quietly. "Including the Animagus transformation."

"Very _good_ , Mr Lupin," McGonagall murmurs, clapping her hands together. "The Animagus transformation is one of the most subtle and complex of transfigurations, far beyond, even, than N.E.W.T. level. A form of Human Transformation, it involves transforming _oneself_ , wandlessly and without incantation, into an animal."

Peter hears a few scattered "wow"s and murmurs around the room, and then those cries get much louder when McGonagall jumps onto the top of her desk, transforming midway through into a tabby cat. Delighted, he claps his hands together, joining the other students in a round of excited applause, and looks with fascination at the little cat's green eyes and glasses-like markings.

Returning to her standing form, McGonagall gives a slight nod of her head to the class.

"Studying to be an animagus is very difficult, but I should love for one of you to attempt it when you've finished your N.E.W.T.s. It takes many months of focused study, but is a _hugely_ rewarding course of study."

Peter puts up his hand, bouncing in his place, and McGonagall hesitates for a moment before she says, "Yes, Mr Pettigrew, a question?"

"Wh—" He cuts himself off immediately when everyone starts looking at him again, feeling sick at the idea of trying to talk with all these people _staring_ at him, and he scrawls his question down as quickly as he can, passing it to Remus.

Remus stares down at the parchment, and for a second or two Peter worries that he's spelt something wrong, even though his spelling is alright in English, usually, but then Remus looks up at McGonagall, clearing his throat. "Um, he says, what's the difference between an animagus and a werewolf?"

"Well," McGonagall says, seriously, "an animagus is a student of transfirguation who makes the conscious choice to transform – it is a long and arduous process that takes many months to achieve one's initial transformation, and it can go wrong or awry in many ways. Once one has achieved one's transformation, however, one can transform at will, and while one is somewhat affected by one's different senses and instincts, one remains in full grasp of one's ordinary faculties. A werewolf, on the other hand, is the victim of a blood infection, generally transmitted via a werewolf's blood or saliva, and rather than transforming at will, changes only with the rise of the full moon…"

She trails off, her lips tight in their frown, her brow drawn down, and then she turns away from the class, flipping over the board and noting down a list of differences, animagi on one side and werewolves on the other.

"Transformed werewolves, in contrast to animagi," she continues, "become insensible of themselves, and ordinarily do not remember that they were human in the first place. Their actions are informed by their instincts as a werewolf – deeply protective of their territory and their personal space, and often aggressive; equally, they will want to hunt, to feed themselves. The lycanthropic transformation is a traumatic and exhausting affair, and the werewolf will ordinarily be extremely hungry upon transformation, and its aggression is only heightened by its pain."

"What pain?" asks one of the Ravenclaw girls. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes," McGonagall says quietly. "The initial animagus transformation is painful for some, but it is merely the ache of growing pains, and these subside when one becomes used to the practice – for a werewolf, the process is inherently a traumatic one, and most victims of lycanthropy live in a state of constant pain directly before and after the full moon, with some experiencing chronic pain from the beginning of their life until the end."

In the distance, one of the bell towers chimes the hour, and as they each begin to pack their things back into their bags, McGonagall says, "Pettigrew, a word, if you please."

Peter, abruptly, cannot stop violently trembling, and he drops his dictionary three times before Remus helps him with it, even though Remus himself looks very pale and a bit green around the gills.

"You aren't in trouble, Pettigrew, try not to look as though you're being sent for the gallows," McGonagall says, coming over to him. James and Sirius linger, and Remus stands with his bag over his shoulder, not moving. "And you three don't need to _hover_. Off you go to your next class. Alright, Lupin?"

"I'm fine, Professor," Remus says, but Peter notes that he doesn't go even as Sirius and James reluctantly sidle off, and he's glad of it, not to be alone with McGonagall. He doesn't think she'd hit him or anything, he knows that sort of thing doesn't really happen at Hogwarts, but he can't keep from trembling, and he's terrified of what she's about to say.

"Your stammer, Mr Pettigrew, it's quite severe, isn't it?"

"Y-y-y-y… Mmm," Peter says, nodding. "B-b-b-b-but it's w-w-w-… I'm b-b-b-b—ett— bett—"

"He's better in Welsh than English," Remus supplies, and Peter nods fervently.

"Have you been to Madame Pomfrey about it?" McGonagall asks quietly.

"N-n-n-n… No."

"Do try to see her at some point today," she says quietly. "Do you know what causes it? If, perhaps, you have an injury in your throat, or your head?"

Peter shakes his head.

"Look, Pettigrew, it… You'll be alright for now," McGonagall says, her voice quiet and serious, "but it's dangerous enough for anybody to attempt incantations. With a stammer as pronounced as yours, it might be something of a struggle for you, and perhaps even a hazard to yourself."

Peter feels a sick, horrified dread begin to coil up in his belly, filling his lungs with acid, and McGonagall looks down at him sympathetically, gently patting his arm. "Just go and see her today, alright?"

Peter nods, mutely, shakily, and he walks along with Remus, staring silently at the stone floors, as they start walking to Charms.

"What'd she say?" James asks.

"She taught his mum, was just asking after her," Remus lies, and Peter gives him a grateful look, feeling beyond pathetic, as Remus squeezes his shoulder.

 **ϟ** **~ THE LUPIN PROBLEM ~** **ϟ**

 **SIRIUS BLACK**

"Checkmate," James says for the third time in half an hour, and Sirius groans, falling back into his bedclothes.

"No more," he says. "This is some agony, James."

"You think it's painful for _you_?" James asks, raising his eyebrows. "How do you think it feels for me?"

"What, constant victory?"

"This doesn't count as victory, Sirius. No more that casting a jinx at a dead horse counts as winning a duel."

Sirius buries his face under his blankets, groaning louder, and James laughs. It's the sort of position he could never have been in, at home, even messing about with Regulus – this sort of lounging and silliness is unbefitting of a member of the Noble and Ancient House Black.

Sirius rather likes not having to worry about being Noble or Ancient. The thought makes him think more of his mother, and then about the Howler he'd thrown into the fireplace this morning, and he swallows hard, glad that the blanket hides his face from James.

They're up in the dormitory, sitting on Sirius' bed, and have mostly been talking about Quidditch for the past hour or so. The classes for the day had been alright – Sirius actually hadn't known a lot of the more in-depth theory stuff, and although it's a bit dry, it actually puts a lot of interesting foundation behind what he _does_ already know, and he genuinely is enjoying it.

"Well," James says. "What do you think of those two?"

"Who?" Sirius asks from under his blankets, and James reaches forward, pulling them to Sirius' chin so that James can see his face.

"Peter and Remus."

"Well," Sirius says, "I like Remus quite a bit. He is rather funny – quick as a whip, he is, although he is strangely shy. Intelligent, too, for that. Yes, I like Remus tremendously."

"And Peter?"

"Well," Sirius mutters. "He's hardly going to be here all that long, is he?"

James' brow furrows. "You don't think?"

"With that stutter? How do you think he's going to cast so much as a levitation spell?"

"Oh," James murmurs, sitting back. "I didn't even _think_ of that. Bit of a duffer, he is, and difficult to carry on a conversation with, but that didn't even occur to me. Do you think they'll expel him?"

"I don't know about _that_ ," Sirius says, sitting up. "But he might have to go off to a specialist school, with only a few students, you know. I doubt his family can finagle a private tutor – the Pettigrews are a decent line, but neither rich nor pretty. If they were a richer family, I imagine he'd have been quietly ushered under the rug by now – certainly, in my family…" James is giving him a strange look, seeming concerned, and Sirius forces his head up, giving a shrug of his shoulders. "Well, suffice it to say, I really don't think he'll be around much longer."

"I feel a bit sorry for him, now," James says. "I was about to ask if you thought there was a way to stop him, you know, hanging about so much."

Sirius sniggers, running a hand through his hair. "And Remus? Don't tell me you hate him."

"Of course I don't _hate_ him," James says. "He's inoffensive – but there's such a thing as being _too_ inoffensive. I dunno, he just seems a bit off. I wouldn't even say _shy_ – closed-off, more like."

"Well, we're gonna be sharing a room with him for the next seven years, James," Sirius murmurs. "And possibly the same with Peter – although, as I said, I doubt it. We'll rather have to get used to them."

"Yeah, yeah," James replies, drumming his fingers against his thigh. "I don't know, they just ruin it a bit, when it's just us."

That surprises Sirius, and he goes quiet for a moment, taking it in, but James makes no effort to retract the statement, getting to his feet and stretching his arms over his head as he goes to the window. Sirius watches him, not _awed_ , per se, but… Well. It's such a _personal_ comment, the sort of thing he'd never have trusted coming from a cousin or the like – it would be said to sow discord, but James really does seem dreadfully sincere about the whole thing.

"Not that I have anything against them," James says, looking out over the grounds from the window, his elbows rested on the sill. "But you and I, we have a rapport, you know, a shared background. They… don't."

"Quite true," Sirius says softly in reply, trying to tamp down the wonderful warmth it puts into him, twisting his lips into a smile, to have someone say something so positive – so _genuinely_ positive – about his company. "Quite true indeed, James."

"I wish we could have our broomsticks," James says, wistfully.

"Merlin," Sirius says, imagining being able to fly out over the grounds of Hogwarts without anyone shouting at him for going too fast, or too gracelessly, or for looking too much like he was having fun. "Me too."

 **ϟ** **~ THE LUPIN PROBLEM ~** **ϟ**

 **PETER PETTIGREW**

When they come into the infirmary, Madame Pomfrey – at least, Peter assumes it's Madame Pomfrey, as she's dressed in a healer's robes and habit, and there's no one else around – immediately bustles out of her office, zeroing in on Remus.

"Mr Lupin! Is there a problem?" she asks, and she glances at Peter, concerned, but Remus shakes his head.

"No, I'm not here for me, Madame Pomfrey – this is Peter Pettigrew, he's in Gryffindor with me. Professor McGonagall said he should come up to you after classes today."

"Oh?" Pomfrey asks, turning to Peter. "And why is that?"

"Peter has a very bad stutter," Remus says, and Peter is grateful for it, desperately grateful. "It's not as bad in Welsh as it is in English, but it's still quite bad. Professor McGonagall says it might be a problem for his spell work?" There's a hard edge in Remus' voice, and Peter glances at him, at the serious look on his face.

"Concerned bystander, are you, Mr Lupin?" Pomfrey asks.

"He shouldn't have to leave Hogwarts because of something he can't help, Madame Pomfrey," Remus says stoutly, and Peter feels himself smile, just slightly, as she turns back to him.

Madame Pomfrey, to Peter's complete delight, speaks Welsh.

He sits up on the bed as she asks him questions about his throat and about any injuries he's ever had to his head – none, that he remembers – and he sits patiently as she does spells and runs her wand next to his head and over his throat.

"How long have you had a stutter for?"

"S-s-s-since I was se— _seven_."

"And does it get worse when you're anxious, Peter, the stutter?"

Peter nods, and Pomfrey shifts back slightly, looking very thoughtful. She's trying to hide her real expression, Peter thinks – people do that when they hear him talk.

"Are you often anxious?" she asks softly.

Peter hesitates. Nods.

"Well," she murmurs, "we'll see how you do as you settle in. I'll speak with Professor Dumbledore about having you set up with one of the elocution specialists that come in once a week from St Mungo's – don't worry," she says when she sees his panicked look, "you're hardly the only boy in the world to come to Hogwarts with a speech impediment. What they'll do is give you some exercises to help with your stutter, and work on it with you."

"Wh— Wh-wh-what if I c-c-can't… can't d-d-d-d… c-c-can't—"

"Can't say your incantations?" Madame Pomfrey supplies gently, when he stops trying, and Peter nods. The humiliation burns in his cheeks, but she doesn't comment on the flush on his face. "We'll think of something. Once upon a time, it was very common for children with speech impediments to have to rely on private tutelage or specialist schools, but Professor Dumbledore doesn't want anybody to have to leave Hogwarts that doesn't want to. Do you want to, Peter?"

Peter shakes his head, emphatically, and Madame Pomfrey smiles at him.

"Then I think we'll be alright."

Peter glances to Remus, who has been patiently waiting the entire time. If it bothers him to sit quietly while Peter and Pomfrey speak in a language he doesn't understand, he doesn't show it: he sits on the next bed over, reading one of his books.

"Here, boys," Pomfrey says before they go, holding out a bowl of wrapped sweets, and Peter grins, thanking her as they move off, both of them popping the things into their mouths.

"Thanks," Peter mumbles around the sweet as they move down the stairs, and Remus gives him a warm smile, making the scars at the corner of his cheek shift with his dimples.

"No problem, Peter," he murmurs. "No problem at all."


End file.
